‘I’m a detective,’ Janet said, ‘this is what I do, this is what I’m good at. We find the bastards, we get them sent down.’
The DCI had asked Janet to do the death message and to take Rachel with her. The worst thing about delivering the bad news was the sheer unpredictability of the reaction you got. One woman laughed, another threw up. Some people simply refused to believe you, arguing the toss, insisting that so-and-so was fine, they had seen them last night, they’d spoken to them on the phone. You had to sit them down and spell it out in big fat letters: D.E.A.D. Repeat it until they stopped blethering on: she was going on holiday, he’s only twenty-two, she’s got an operation next week, she’s got children. As if these facts – mundane, domestic, particular – could gainsay the truth. As if death could be reversed because he’d got an interview for Morrisons tomorrow.
Other people went numb, they listened and they nodded and didn’t utter a peep. They were polite and cooperative, but when you looked in their eyes there was no one home. They were absent, hiding. Then there were the ones that shot the messenger, tried to shut the door on them, and if they couldn’t do that in time, told them to fuck off, even lashed out, pinching, slapping, shoving.
Janet once had a cup of tea flung at her. A woman whose son had been killed in a homophobic attack. Five of them kicked him to death. When Janet broke the news, the woman had flinched, twisting her head to and fro as if trying to escape the facts she’d just heard, then reached for her mug and hurled the contents at Janet. The tea was hot but not boiling. Though she reared back, Janet had not cried out. She had simply wiped at her face and repeated her condolences, then assured the woman that they would find the people who had done it and put them in prison for life. And the woman had sat, shaking uncontrollably, the sound of her teeth chattering clear and loud in the stuffy room.
Where the victim was embroiled in violent crime already, the next of kin often knew before you said a word. He’s dead, isn’t he? The stupid fucking bastard. And behind the ruptured words all the years of effort and loving and arguing and fighting and the bitter knowledge that this was how it would end and now it had. I told him. Never listened – silly sod wouldn’t have it.
Most were shocked, bewildered, sometimes tearful. It was important to keep things simple, straightforward, to give the minimum amount of information possible, because at that point in time dead, murdered, was all they needed to know. That in itself was overload. The torrent of whys and hows and whens and who and why, why, why came later.
‘I’ll do it, if you like,’ Rachel said, in the car. ‘I’ve done a couple.’ It was pitch-dark now, the temperature dropping; there’d be freezing fog on the hills.
Janet glanced at her. ‘No, you’re fine,’ she said, after a pause.
Rachel considered whether to argue for it. She wondered if Janet was going to be one of those greedy gits who kept all the good stuff for herself so it would take Rachel twice as long to get the experience she needed. Women were still a minority in the service, especially at higher ranks, and most of the ones Rachel had worked with were good teachers, making sure other women coming after them had the same bite of the cherry as their male colleagues, encouraging them to specialize, to set their sights on moving up. There was a lot of mentoring went on. But Janet Scott? Maybe Rachel was a threat? Rachel considered asking her to stop so she could have a fag, but what if she said no? She’d have one after they’d informed the family, Janet could hardly drive off and leave her there without proving herself to be a right cow.
Denise Finn lived in Harpurhey, a short bus ride from Lisa’s, a two-up, two-down. Garden terraces, the estate agents called them, flying in the face of all the evidence. They had no gardens, only titchy backyards that originally housed the outside bog.
The street was still, quiet when they got out of the car, people tucked in, keeping warm. Here and there, where the curtains hadn’t been drawn at upper windows, the neon blue of televisions and computers flickered and swam. The windows at Denise’s were dark, but the hall light was on and the diamond of glass in the front door glowed yellow.
There was no bell or knocker, so Janet rattled the letter box.
Rachel looked up; no stars in the sky, just the blanket of fog. They heard movement in the house. Then a shadow rippled behind the glass in the door.
‘Denise Finn?’ Janet said when the door opened. ‘I’m DC Janet Scott, Manchester Metropolitan Police, and this is DC Rachel Bailey. May we come in?’
‘Why?’ the woman asked. She looked to be in her fifties, her face lined, nose and cheeks criss-crossed with broken veins, jawline softening, grey hair mixed with the brown. Her hair was frizzy, brittle. Her glasses magnified her eyes. She wore a black sweater that had seen better days and navy joggers. 10 Years Younger, thought Rachel, prime candidate. Ten years older once she’s heard what we’ve got to tell her.
‘We’d like to come in,’ Janet said, moving forward, giving the woman no choice but to back away and turn, taking them through the front room, past the open stairs and into the back where the television was showing Emmerdale. The house smelled of cigarettes and chip fat and some floral chemical, air freshener perhaps, that made Rachel want to gag.
Denise stood there. ‘What’s going on?’ She picked up the remote, muted the television. ‘Is it our Lisa? Is she in bother again?’
‘Please, Mrs Finn, sit down,’ Janet said.
The woman frowned, opened her mouth, then closed it. Sat on the sofa; Janet sat beside her. The woman still held the remote, gripped tight in both hands.
Rachel parked herself in the only armchair. Looked about. The television occupied one alcove at the far side of the chimney breast, in the other recess were shelves with knick-knacks and photos. Lisa as a toddler and older. One of her on a merry-go-round horse at the fair, another, an early teenager at some do, dressed up in skin-tight clothes: white skirt, silver boob tube and hoop earrings. There was a boy in other photos, and one of the two children together, a school photo, be about eleven or twelve, Rachel guessed. The boy looked older, but not by much. They shared the same snub nose and rosebud mouth. In every picture his hair was cropped close, his ears stuck out like jug handles.
‘I am sorry, I’ve got some very sad news,’ Janet spoke steadily, slowly.
Rachel waited, studying her own hands.
‘Your daughter, Lisa, was found at her flat this afternoon with fatal injuries.’
Rachel glanced over. Denise froze, the room was pin-drop quiet and Rachel could hear Denise’s breath, a suck of sorts, a gulping sound, choking on the truth.
‘Lisa is dead,’ Janet added, lest there be any misunderstanding, in case fatal wasn’t enough.
‘Injuries?’ Denise said dully, putting the remote on the arm of the sofa.
‘Yes, we think she was attacked.’
Denise Finn gave a muffled shriek. And her feet shifted on the carpet as if they wanted to carry her away.
‘I am very sorry, Mrs Finn. We will be trying to find out who did this to Lisa. A colleague of ours will be acting as your family liaison officer, they will support you and let you know how our inquiries are going. They’re on their way now.’
Denise’s hand clutched at the neck of her sweater. From outside, Rachel heard the thump of a car door and the cough of an engine, then the car horn, toot-toot-toot, a jolly farewell blast before the car moved off.
Denise Finn’s eyes filled with tears. She took a cigarette from the packet on the side table and Rachel felt her own cravings kick in.